Odysseus
by Ron Micci
it mightn’t have occurred
to Odysseus
to wear long underwear
in the Aegean night
if Penelope hadn’t gotten it
so perfect and right
the postcards were few
and often waylaid
her oaths of fidelity
tested and frayed
Telemachos my son
good steadfast boy
sure as the surf spray
pride and joy
twenty years’ wait
is a heck of a stretch
with Poseidon acting
the part of a wretch
surrendered at first
to Kalypso’s nymph clutches
seven long years
without help of some suches
Athene my proxy took matters to Zeus
who messengered Hermes, thanks, thus I sprung loose
on a raw sea awash in Poseidon’s old tricks
I had one of my own, not with stones but with sticks
and lanced out his Cyclops son’s misshapen eye
then returned to the voyage with hopes breasting high
though the snares seemed unending, singing Sirens and such
Circe’s hot lusts ever warm to the touch
we forged on ahead, with tough sacrifices
Scylla the she-monster’s six-headed vices
a choice between feeding her many-mouthed cravings
and risking a whirlpool of Charybdis’ mad ravings
lotus-eaters offered narcotic enticements
to make us forget the here what and why(ce)-ments
and Aeolus, the wind-maker, with his ox-skinned bag
unleashed one last insult, one more blast, one more snag
but the shores of Ithaca loomed clear at long last
I prayed dear Penelope’s heart had held fast
beset lo these years by a surfeit of suitors
would I still on Olympus have one or two rooters
I’d slip through unnoticed on Ithacan shore
a poor hapless beggar that most would ignore
save an oxherd and swineherd whom I now befriended
and this was the prelude, our story soon ended
enduring yet insults from Penelope’s suitors
I set down the challenge, with few to no rooters
who might string my longbow, a feat of great strength
all takers soon failed, and then at length
I let fly my arrows, the slaughter commenced
long years of exile, by blood recompensed
a handful of suitors resorted to spears
which Athene deflected, to resounding cheers
I finished the others, with strong spears alike
until I had made my final last strike
Penelope, darling, come soft in my arms
delivered on high from travails and harms
now let our passions run wild and free
me unto you and you unto me
as husband and wife, devoted and dear
loving and faithful, our hearts ever near
our hopes will be buoyed, ecstatic, sublime
on seas of devotion, for now and all time
A prolific author of plays, screenplays, novels, poems and short stories, from the comedic to the serious, many available for perusal on the Booksie, Stage 32 and Amazon websites, Ron Micci is a published playwright (Brooklyn/Heuer Publishers) and former magazine editor. His one-act plays have been staged in Manhattan and throughout the country. His piece “My Redacted Life” was recently published on the Confetti website and his short story “Snatched!” has been selected for publication this year by The Brussels Review.
